For the Weary
by drama-princess
Summary: “I have seen death, Potter. It can destroy you. Tear apart your entire life. And you act as though you and your little friends are immune to it.” After Sinistra’s death, Snape finds surviving is sometimes that hardest thing of all.


Title: For the Weary  
  
Author: drama-princess  
  
Pairing: Snape/Sinistra  
  
Disclaimer: This is a sad one, kids. I'm not kidding, either-- I cried writing it. All characters are property of J.K. Rowling and are used without permission, and I really hope she's nicer to them than I am. No money is being made off this story, just some damp tissues. Some of this-- and she knows which bits-- belongs to She's A Star. She knows which bits. I've quoted Shakespeare's Sonnet 141, Anthony and Cleopatra, and Romeo and Juliet. Reviews, by the way, are greatly appreciated.   
  
Summary: I have seen death, Potter. It can destroy you. Tear apart your entire life. And you act as though you and your little friends are immune to it. After Sinistra's death, Snape finds surviving is sometimes that hardest thing of all.   
  
~*~  
  
**For the Weary  
  
**by drama-princess**  
  
~*~  
**_  
  
  
  
What now? In case it has escaped your attention, Aurgia, we're about to face death and other miscellaneous peril on the battlefield. Now is not a good time to tell me you left the timer on.  
  
Shut up, you idiot, and just kiss me.  
  
A soft kiss at first, almost like the first time, clumsily reaching for something. Her arms, light on his shoulders, his hands snug around her waist, her face lifted to his. He was reminded, suddenly, of how small and fragile she was. Then she stood on her tiptoes, and the kiss deepened. Her lips were gentle and warm against his, and a sudden part of his mind realized that this could very well be the last time he ever kissed her.  
  
Sentimental, mawkish nonsense, he growled at her when the kiss ended. She smirked, a little, and adjusted her battle robes. The bun containing her unruly hair was lopsided, her hem had gotten caught in her heavy boots, and her glasses had once again fallen to the end of her nose.   
  
. . . she wasn't entirely hideous, at least.  
  
Just like you, darling, she said lightly, squeezing his hand. I'm to report to the Quidditch field, so this is it.  
  
he replied noncommittally.  
  
Oh, don't get all mushy on me, she said, her dark eyes twinkling behind her spectacles. So long, love. He sneered down at her, his long fingers idly winding a loose lock of her hair against her cheek.  
  
Really, Aurgia, your fondness for Muggle entertainment is horrific. I think I preferred the Shakespeare.   
  
She smiled a little at that, but did not reply. Something looked frightened and distant in her eyes.   
  
Cold-hearted towards me? he asked softly, his hand resting on the back of her neck. She shook her head rapidly, drawn out of her solitary reverie, and smiled at him.  
  
Ah, dear, she said quietly. If I be so, from my cold heart let heaven engender hail, and poison it in the source; and the first stone drop in my neck: as it determines, so dissolve my life! She pressed a hand to her forehead dramatically.   
  
he said irritably, aware that a strange twinkle was making its way into his eye. Dammit. He was turning into Albus, Merlin rest his soul. He missed the old man at times. He'd certainly been happy enough to see Sinistra and him together.  
  
She winked at him, and did a little twirl as she tugged her robes down over her feet.   
  
Goodbye, Aurgia, he said quietly, and slid her spectacles up her nose, kissing her forehead once before turning to go.   
  
Goodbye, Sev. She bit her lip once, more hesitant than he'd seen her in years. He lifted an eyebrow at this unusual behavior. Aurgia Sinistra said what she had on her mind, including various obscenities relating to his personal habits, ancestry, and probable destination.   
  
I love you, she muttered, turning scarlet.   
  
Shut up, he said, rather unconvincingly. She only smiled in a thoroughly irritating fashion, the embarrassment having passed  
  
No, that's your job. She kissed him again, lightly this time, and began to leave. She winked at him, and he thought he saw the faint gloss of tears in her eyes. Kill Claudio, my Benedick.   
  
he began.  
  
She turned from her way out the door. What now, you prat?  
  
He wanted desperately scream at her, to tell her to go back to the castle, you half-baked excuse for a teacher, stay where you'll be safe, and for God's sake, don't get yourself killed, because dammit, Aurgia, you're the only thing that matters to me anymore.  
  
He hated this.   
  
  
  
When this ridiculous excuse for a battle is over, we'll need to discuss wedding arrangements, as I refuse to allow your mother to plan our undoubtedly soppy ceremony.   
  
Her face lit up with a luminous smile that Gilderoy Lockhart would have envied. It transformed her entire person, and he wished that he could have said it earlier, to be able to sit and watch the glow spread across her face while the sun was warm and lazy outside. He would have to propose properly later, to quote Shakespeare at her (what Aurgia called their Dorky Couple Thing in a stunning misuse of the English language), and to reluctantly peruse jewelry catalogs.   
  
You mean it?   
  
No, Sinistra, I propose regularly to women I don't intend to marry.  
  
She ran up to him, and threw her arms about his neck, burying her face a little awkwardly into his shoulder. I thought so.   
  
The bells rang insistently, sounding them all to their positions.   
  
I love you, she whispered into his neck. You stupid, greasy, unbearable git. You impossible, unbelievable, ridiculously--  
  
I love you too, he shot back, kissing her head on impulse. There hadn't been enough kisses, he realized dimly. Now get off my robes before you stain them permanently.   
  
She smirked. As you wish, my love.  
  
For once, Aurgia, you did what I asked. We should fight the Dark Lord more often.  
  
  
  
She paused.  
  
I love you.  
  
_~*~  
  
He's dead! Praise Merlin!  
  
Oh, thank God!  
  
Thank Harry Potter, more like!  
  
Severus Snape threw down his wand on the blood-stained grass at the sound of the first cheer. Ignoring the gleeful (and rather hideously ugly) victory dance of Neville Longbottom, he ripped off his left sleeve and stared.  
  
It was gone.  
  
Oh, sweet stars, he murmured, weirdly conscious of the fact he'd just borrowed one of Aurgia's favorite expressions. He usually hated hearing the slightly surreal saying, as well. A rare smile played about his thin lips. Praise God, Merlin, and even Harry Potter if the idiot boy had anything to do with it.   
  
Sir! We're gathering at the Quidditch pitch so the Headmistress can say a few things!   
  
Snape glanced down at his own cuts and bruises. All things considered, he'd come through relatively unscathed. Aurgia would probably insist on bandaging him up herself, and would, in the process, manage to lose him a limb. Typical woman.   
  
Very well. He'd attend this ridiculous meeting.  
  
He didn't allow himself to think of the casualties he'd seen on the field today as he strode along to the Quidditch pitch. He'd seen enough blood and death in his lifetime to keep him out of shock, and he was in control of his own mind enough to put it off until he was better prepared to deal with it. He'd probably have to take care of Aurgia, he reminded himself, quickly gearing up for empty eyes and hysterical crying.   
  
The prospect was not entirely unappealing. He rather liked having Aurgia curled up--  
  
Good God, he was going soft.  
  
Well, it wasn't everyday the Dark Lord was defeated.   
  
He quickly arranged his face into a flat, dispassionate expression. There were students who would have lost friends, siblings, lovers today. Although the death toll, considering all things, had been relatively minor. In the end, it was Voldemort who had paid the price, and not the carriers of the light.   
  
Ah. Minerva was speaking.  
  
And we must not forget those who died to bring us this victory today, the woman said sternly, looking over the joyous crowd with the same attitude she presented to an unruly Transfiguration class. Let us take a moment of silence for the-- and I must emphasize that this is incomplete-- list of casualties.  
  
The crowd fell silent, and Snape resisted the temptation to stare over the countless heads for a particular auburn-haired one. Where _was _Aurgia, at any rate? She'd probably arrived before he had, being much closer to the pitch than he. Probably off flirting with Remus Lupin, he thought wryly as he bent his head.  
  
Hannah Abbot. Padma Patil. Blaise Zabini. Seamus Finnigan. Terry Boot. Aurgia Sinistra.   
  
Snape froze.  
  
Lavendar Brown. Dennis Creevy. Queenie Greengrass.  
  
Around him, laughter was turning to solemn faces and silent tears.   
  
Aurgia couldn't die.  
  
The idea was ludicrous.  
  
It must have been the other Aurgia Sinistra at this school.  
  
_Snape, don't be an idiot.  
  
_He couldn't have heard Minerva correctly.  
  
He'd been distracted.  
  
_In faith, I do not love thee with mine eyes.  
  
_For God's sake, where was she? And what idiot was in charge of listing the so-called casualties?   
  
_For they in thee a thousand errors note...  
  
_She'd been doing child's work, protecting a minor segment of the castle, far from the front lines.  
  
_But tis my heart that loves what they despise;  
  
_She wasn't a fool. Surely she would have known not to do anything that would expose her to danger._  
  
Not my five wits, nor my five senses can--  
  
_Dear God, where were the bodies? He'd _show _them, he knew that it was all a mistake, that she couldn't be dead._  
  
Dissuade one foolish heart from serving thee.   
  
_She wasn't dead.  
  
She couldn't be.  
  
No.  
  
~*~  
  
_We thought you were the best person to have her personal effects, Severus.  
  
Severus, you must speak to someone about it. It can't be--  
  
Professor Snape?  
  
Do you think you could--  
  
Did Professor Sinistra name any possible successors?   
  
Please, just sign here--  
  
  
  
Her wand--  
  
Excellent Astronomy professor--  
  
_Longbottom, I don't give a damn whether the Dark Lord's been defeated or not, you will still have to pass my final exam to graduate. Get your head out of the star-- clouds and pay attention, dammit.  
  
Longbottom swallowed. Hard.  
  
Granger, if I see you whisper one more instruction to your fairly incompetent collegue, you will be spending the rest of the year in the halls. Do I make myself clear?  
  
Yes, sir, the girl whispered.   
  
And do try to make an effort to groom yourself before coming to class. I will not tolerate seeing your ridiculous hair any longer. If you will not take the effort to--  
  
_Sleakeazy's_ _Potion takes forever and a day, sweetie, and it's not like you've got great hair to begin with. So don't give me that nonsense about proper grooming, Sev.   
  
_Weasley tried to surreptitiously press his hand over his girlfriend's in comfort.  
  
And Weasley, fifteen points from Gryffindor. I will not tolerate public displays of affection.   
  
That's not fair, Potter said suddenly, standing up. His green eyes glittered strangely, as if to say that the survivors were the ones dictating the game now. So you won, Potter, Snape thought grimly. How do you think you won? Do you think we put you out on the battlefield and let you face Voldemort alone?   
  
Snape hissed instead, drawing closer to the desks.   
  
Look, Snape, I don't know what your problem is--  
  
Twenty points from Gryffindor.  
  
I don't give a damn!  
  
Snape screamed suddenly, spittle flying from his mouth. Get out! All of you! Except Potter, you disgusting _child. _He fairly spat the words. Now get out.   
  
The class immediately scurried out, Granger shooting on terrified glance back at him before Weasley pulled her out.  
  
Hey, Snape, Potter's voice was hard, and tired. Voldemort's dead now, got it? You don't have to be such a bastard anymore.  
  
Snape said darkly, sinking down in his desk chair.   
  
What, Snape?_  
  
_ he hissed, his dark eyes sparkling dangerously. You are just as ridiculous as your father. He, too, could not face his own mortality. It disgusts me, Potter. A pause.  
  
I have seen death. It can destroy you. Tear apart your entire life. And you act as though you and your little friends are immune to it.  
  
The potions master fell silent, and Potter stood awkwardly, obviously wishing he would be allowed to leave.  
  
  
  
Get out of my sight, Potter, he spat. He didn't look up.  
  
_Harry Potter's really a sweet kid, Sev-- I know, I know, the hideous progeny of James Potter. Good grief. Get over the pink hair already.   
  
_~*~  
  
In the end, he decided to give away most of her things. Before then they sat lifelessly in his quarters, cluttering up surfaces in a way that Aurgia never had. The majority of them were trifles, anyway, silly bits of jewelry that she had never worn or dress robes hardly creased by wear. Hairpins charmed for curly hair that she had evidently never used. Still unopened cosmetics that had been shoved into the back of a drawer. Her wardrobe, which he sent to the Wizards Relief Fund, smelled of Muggle perfume and cedar.   
  
He had never known she had owned so much clothing.   
  
It seemed ridiculous to keep the scraps of lace and nylon she had called lingerie,'-- they belonged to another lifetime, with what could have, should have been. But he found himself tucking a single, plain white camisole into the trunk he'd charmed to hold the remainder of her possessions. He remembered, too vividly for indifference, sliding the straps off of her shoulders as they kissed.   
  
There were strange knick-knacks like that, a signed photo of Gilderoy Lockhart or a crumpled star chart. A broken vial of what looked like Pepper Up Potion, or a note he'd scribbled to allow to Slytherin Quidditch team to practice that morning. There were a few photographs, and those he carefully tucked away among his own possessions. Most of them were of Aurgia, flushed and excited at an Astronomy conference, but there was one of him glaring at a roomful of Ravenclaws, and one of the two of them at Christmas that Albus had taken. His eyesight blurred for a moment as Aurgia waved cheerfully at him, her hand snug in his own.   
  
He recalled being very, very drunk that night.   
  
Her journals, too, he kept, but did not open. He was tempted to it for a long moment, running his fingers over the grubby notebooks, but then he merely wrapped them in paper enchanted to keep things fresh, and laid them away.   
  
Perhaps in a few years, he thought.   
  
He knew better.  
  
Scraps of lesson plans, mismatched socks, unread books-- Divination for Dummies-- and well-thumbed ones-- Potions in Bed-- he put those away in boxes charmed not to open. Things no one else would ever want, and things he could not bring himself to burn.   
  
_When _had she bought that atrocious book, anyway?  
  
He tried to maintain her grave, but ended up staring aimlessly at the headstone for a few moments before stalking off to his lab for hours. Flowers were no help-- even Aurgia's favorite, red roses, looked impersonal against the grey stone. The inscription on her grave read Aurgia Sinistra, 1958-1997. Professor of Astronomy, Died a Hero in The Last Battle. May the stars guard you.   
  
He tried to remember her as the lost heroine of the war, the woman who had so valiantly saved five first years in the wrong place at the wrong time.   
  
The time she threw a coffee mug at him for comparing her to Hagrid kept coming back to him.  
  
~*~  
  
Life went on, as it had to.  
  
Potter graduated. Snape heard that he married the youngest Weasley girl and became an Auror, although he couldn't be certain, isolated as he was. China Sinistra, Aurgia's mother, sent him a photo album of her childhood pictures. He looked through a few, and tried to find a few traces of the woman in the girl. The unruly, frizzy hair was certainly present. From second year on so were the spectacles, hideous horn-rimmed ones that slipped down her nose.   
  
The constant smirk he remembered, the stuttering explanations, the nervous smiles, the flashing temper-- he couldn't find them in the shy, studious Hogwarts student, and so he put the pictures away.   
  
He rented a cottage by the sea, and walked the cold shores alone. The solitude was ideal for potions research, but he found himself mindlessly brewing medical potions for St. Mungo's instead. Minerva wrote and asked him if he had any prefences towards Aurgia's replacement. He replied, rather irritably, that his field was potions, not stars, and would she kindly cease bothering him?   
  
He drank tea instead of coffee at breakfast, and took a book with him to all meals. Occasionally, he would glance up, expecting to see a flash of auburn hair or a wry smile, but of course he never did. Sometimes, late at night, he would drop his teacup on the floor and wait for the sarcastic comment, but of course it never came.   
  
He saw an emerald engagement ring in a corner shop, and took it home.  
  
Aurgia, he thought, would have liked the senseless romanticism behind the gesture.  
  
~*~  
  
When he returned to Hogwarts in the fall, he had cultivated a little peace, enough to return to his usual sour self. The student population was less this year, of course, in smaller numbers than he'd ever seen. There was a rattling silence in the castle, like too few toys in a child's box.   
  
The new Astronomy's teacher was-- Subs-- Nanc-- something he could never remember. He was weirdly efficient, and rarely descended to take meals with the rest of the castle. Snape couldn't stop himself from staring when the man came down, anyway, as if to ask him what exactly he thought he was doing in Aurgia's seat, and if he thought this was some sort of joke. The students complained that Subs--Nanc-- something-- took points for the slightest mistake, and that it was too bad poor Professor Sinistra had died. The rumour about her and Professor Snape wasn't true, was it?   
  
Snape took a coffee mug from the staff room, and put a single red rose in the cup. The rest of her things were safely packed away in darkened corners. He slid the emerald ring on the stem, and thought that it looked much better, if more than slightly idiotic.  
  
_With this ring I thee wed, with my body I thee worship._  
  
The emerald kept slipping, but somehow he didn't mind pushing it back up.  
  
_Doesn't she know they have spells for that sort of thing? It is very... distracting._  
  
At night he brewed himself a cup of ginger tea and settled down with the Daily Prophet. The wizarding world was rebuilding nicely, and several of his students were becoming important players in the new ministry. The Chudley Cannons won the Quidditch World Cup this year, and Celestina Warbeck sung at the opening ceremony in tribute to those who died. A new type of Verisatium was being patented, and the last of the Death Eaters were either being sworn as Pentients or left to the care of the newly remodeled Azkaban prison.   
  
Occasionally he took a glass of brandy and read Shakespeare, but it felt strangely empty, and he usually put the book down and went to bed.   
  
_Oh, wilt thou leave me so unsatisfied?  
  
_Late nights when he couldn't sleep, when he felt a peculiar burning in his eyes, he would rise and walk up to the Astronomy Tower. The stars glittered on, coldly, but at least they were the same.   
  
In the end, she _had _loved him, and somehow that made things bearable.   
  
Once Subs-- Nanc-- something-- came to the door and looked at him quizically, but Snape said nothing.  
  
There was nothing to say.   
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  



End file.
